


Our Agreement

by captainofthegreenpeas



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Book 3: Mockingjay, But also Justice Served, Even Evil Has Loved Ones, Gen, Implied Attempted Suicide, Insanity, Tragedy, bad language, mild bad language, unholy matrimony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 18:03:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13840107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainofthegreenpeas/pseuds/captainofthegreenpeas
Summary: The events of Snow's capture; and final descent into insanity.





	1. Chapter 1

There was no precedent for this.

  
Not once in all her history had the Capitol ever openly backed down, let alone surrendered. She was not used to subjugation. There was not even a template on what to write if the occasion arose. None of his predecessors had ever dreamed that they could ever be undone; or if they had they had not given voice to such dreams. Probably wise, a contingency plan such as that, no matter how few people knew of it, hinted at caution and caution hinted at fear and fear hinted at vulnerability. Therefore there was no drafted surrender to neatly copy and issue. 

  
Part of him was tempted just to scribble “you win” and sign it, but this was not the time for it. The proper form must be discovered and observed. Should it be in Latin, the surrender? Formal Capitol documents always were, to prevent them being understood by District eyes, should they somehow fall into rougher hands. But the president’s intention was pass this document into such hands, so unless it made its way to Heavensbee, Latin would not do. 

  
Neatly unfurling the words in the correct formal script and keeping the language as plain as was in keeping with formality:

  
“I, Coriolanus, of gens Snow, 89th President of Panem, Mayor of The Capitol, Pater Patria, Governor of Twelve, Chief Magister of the Palatine Court and Praetor of the Peacekeepers, officially consent to the total surrender; and order the demobilisation of; all Capitol armed forces currently operating by sea, land or air. I command all civilians of Capitol citizenship to like surrender.” 

  
He remembered the old oath; and added it in. “On the honor of myself and mine, am I bound to my word.”

  
Still keeping the letters tight and dispassionate, he continued.

  
“Trusting in the civility of the leadership of the victorious faction; and on grounds that surrender was conducted wholly, without compulsion and without deceit, in the interests of the nation, I-” Humbly? “-respectfully request immunity on the grounds of innocence and humility for the following…”

  
Writing out the names of his relatives, he was reminded of those who had already gone before. There was no point in including his sons. The second and third he knew were definitely dead, the first beyond his reach. The dead no longer mattered. The living who would be left behind were the only ones to be concerned with. However, on observing the paper, it seemed that the list was a little long. Seven people. If he removed the in-laws, he could painfully cut it down to five. The shorter the list, the better. Having said that, it was probably pointless to include Elly’s  name in there. His wife was no more humble or innocent than he was; and everyone knew it. 

  
Then again, now was no time for second guessing. He had best not change it. Crossed-out words or additions would imply uncertainty.    
The president opened the top drawer of the desk and removed these objects: a long stick of fresh red sealing wax, a seal so heavy he had to lift it with both hands, a candle, matches; and finally a sharp silver knife. 

  
He carefully lit the candle and turned the wax slowly to evenly melt it. Not a drop out of place. Without being stamped, sealed and signed, the surrender would have no validity and he would be well and truly buggered. 

  
The moment he removed the stick from the candle’s tip, his first thought was that he had pulled the pin of some grenade. 

  
The candle dropped and burned his hand just before he could snatch it out of the way. There was a rushing sound, the windows trembled, the table across the room rocked, glass crashed, water spilled, flowers flopped. Above, the beaded streams in the chandelier chimed together with foreboding.

  
“Coro?” His wife entered the room in a fluster. “What on earth is going oh-”

  
There was only time to catch just a glimpse of her silver hair before a hand cut off her words and another pulled her back off the threshold. 

 

Not attempting to identify the hands, he snatched up his pen and waved it around on the paper to form something that would pass as his signature, ignoring the pain where the pen rubbed against the burn. That was all he could do now. He meant to do no more. He swapped the pen for the knife. 

  
A hand closed around his wrist and banged it against the table, trying to shake off his grip. This time the hand was attached to the arm of a guard from the neighbouring room.

  
Fury sparking and igniting his confusion he grabbed the candle, still burning and stabbed the offending hand with it. The guard screamed and unthinkingly pulled his hand back. The president swiped at him with the knife, to try and ward him off, but his attacker ducked under, slamming his full weight into Snow’s ribcage. The loss of air meant loss of strength, compounded by the consequent collision with the floor. The knife spun out of reach. Before he could even recognise the floor, he was being pulled to his feet, stumbling. To disorient him further, the guard clapped his head against the top of the desk twice. 

  
“Mutiny carries the death penalty,” the threat was muffled by the table but the president spoke it with such venom there would be no lack of comprehension. “I will spare you nothing.”

  
“That means nothing to me. You’ve already burnt our own children with your parachute bombs you coward, you-”

  
“Parachutes? What are you blathering? Since when did I use parachutes the past months for anything you dunderhead-”

 

“Don’t you f-ing lie to me!” The guard spat at him. “You dropped those parachute bombs on the children outside and then they went off again but bigger and killed everyone who came closer-” 

  
“That would require the same bomb exploding twice,” He retorted. “Did I have a hovercraft to do this? You know? A hovercraft I didn’t know I had? Or did I scatter them from the rooftops like confetti? When they carve up your corpse, will they find a brain in there anywhere?” 

  
That earned him another slam against the table. The throbbing in his head intensified. 

  
“Grandpa!” There was a shriek that had fled from all the way across the house. “Grandma! Help! Help me! Grandpa!”

  
“We’re surrendering.” The guard grabbed his neck and arms and the bundle formed of the two of them crashed its way across the room, pressing closer and closer to the door as his own guard dragged him off. 

  
“Oh, so you can read? Delightful. Can you read the word "immunity” by any chance? I think you’ve misinterpreted it, it’s a long word for a small brain. I demand it right now and that screaming does not sound like immunity!“

  
"Not on your orders. Everyone in the mansion is personally giving up. Their own accord. They don’t give a damn what you say.” 

  
As they reached the threshold he grabbed the doorframe and clung on and though his hands felt like they were about to break he kept clinging. 

  
“Someone help me with him!” Feet hurried over and a second pair of hands, a servant’s, pulled him away, leaving bloody marks on the frame.

  
The delay meant they had rejoined the skirmish Aelith was causing across the landing. Being more robust, her struggling had lasted considerably longer. There were three attempting to restrain her, one had hold of her by the hair, another had long stripes of blood down his face, where she had raked him with her nails. When one grabbed a leg, the First Lady kicked at her, screaming obscenities she had spent her life pretending she didn’t know. 

  
“End it.” 

  
“They’ll want her alive,” grunted the woman who had been kicked. 

  
“Too bad, they should have got her themselves. Kill the old bitch.”

  
The one at her hair let go and flung the nearest chair at the nearest window. The one with the gouged face pushed.

  
“Elly.”

  
“Stop!” She screamed as she followed the chair. “Stop stop no-” the scream stopped short at the smack of her head on the ground. 

  
It was now five against one. They charged on him in a swarm and the pace of restraint grew quicker, more urgent. Snow had lost the power to struggle but they could not shut him up. Every insult and term of abuse his imagination could conjure for him. He coloured his language into a rainbow of spite, but nothing would cut tears from their eyes. Their determination had crystallised them. 

  
The shrieking outside the window had stopped, but the shouts within the house multiplied and amplified from every corner. His assailants had the good sense to avoid going down stairs. 

 

A passing store cupboard gave them pause, but realising it might contain throwable objects they opted for an empty old restroom around the corner instead and flung him inside. Tiles were harder than wood and his bones did not thank him for it. There was no lock outside the door, but it had closed by the time he reached it. He hammered on the door, leaving bloody smears on the wood. Judging by the extra weight, they had of course pushed something against the door from the outside. There was a window, but it was too high up on the wall and too small for any escape to be possible. Unless Snow could find a way to poison himself with hand soap, he was stuck here.

 

His knees finally gave way to the floor; and his breathing gave way to coughing. Without the adrenaline of the chase, he was exhausted and the pain, unchecked, ran rampant. He leaned his head against the wall. Twisting his handkerchief around and around, he stared into space and the words of the guard returned to his thoughts. 

 

Parachutes. Bombing. Dead children. If what he had said was true, untainted by stupidity, something greater was afoot. Death was close, but the answer to this, he swore to himself, was closer.

[  
](https://captainofthegreenpeas.tumblr.com/post/138367360784/never-seen-blood-before#notes)

 

 


	2. not to lie

I never want to leave this room.

  
Ever since the 74th Hunger Games, he had spent little and less time in here. There had been too much to do, too much at stake. Now, he spent hours in here, all alone, just as he had spent years wanting. Nobody had visited, save Heavensbee, Coin and Katniss and the last of those was the only one he wanted to talk to.

   
Just the way he liked it. No stupid people bothering him.

  
The doctor who had been charged with him these last days was not his own. There had been no sign of Dr Tiberius since before the surrender. If they know half of what he has done in my name, Tiberius will be screaming himself to death everyday until the end of days. Perhaps they would hijack him before they killed him, just for the irony of it.

  
Given all that had happened, he should never left his rose garden at all. He should never have even played the game; and left it to the other Capitolites to squabble over the presidency. He should have tended to the roses and ignored the outside world. Created a beautiful sanctuary where all was perfect and clean and pure and peaceful, with the rest of the human race butchering their fellow creatures outside. He had every reason to regret the entire course of his life, that long series of terrible crimes and worse decisions, rife with pain, misery and suffering from beginning to end. Mostly, at least, other people’s suffering.

  
Yet he did not. Not one moment had he felt remorse. Not one death at his hands had been unnecessary. He had plucked them from life as tenderly as he had plucked roses from the bush. Picking only the finest. Here, in the most beautiful rose garden the world had ever known, he would let them bloom as he had not let them bloom in life.

  
And how many roses there were.

 

He had been growing roses for as long as he could remember, in different gardens, but this was the crowning jewel of them all. One of the best things about the presidency was the land and the money and the means to create this, the wonder of the world. It did not even matter that the grasping little usurper Coin would probably destroy it root and stem and use it grow inferior things like fruit or vegetables. The garden had existed. There was no point in leaving it now. There was nowhere to run to, even if there was he wasn’t sure he wanted to go. He was a president, the greatest Panem had ever seen. He should die poetically, surrounded by beauty. Not in some smelly bunker.

  
In the end, it was to be an arrow, shot by the Mockingjay herself. Good. His assassin should be legendary, the quality of the assassin reflected on the status of the target. He would have felt personally offended at any less than the best. Given his physical state, it was almost merciful.

  
He had expected worse, in truth. Burning at the stake had been the fate he’d have put money on. Suitably ironic, too, given that she was the Girl on Fire and he had burned District 12. The spark had ignited the inferno that had destroyed him. Hanging would have been worse. Not just the pain of suffocation, the final loss of whatever short breath he had retained. The humiliation of it. Like a common criminal, no different to any other guttersnipe.

  
The last games… his own grandchildren, offered up as tribute. That hurt more than all promise of execution. After all that he had done over the years to protect his loved ones from friends and enemies inside as well as outside the family, he had failed.   
Yet, he set his grief aside. Better a short, comfortable, contented life with a painful death than a prolonged one of torment with a swift finish. No matter how slow death came, life would always last longer.

 

The door opened and shut and the smart steps of a confident rebel assigned to guarding him were the cue for his last act.

  
“All is ready. It is time to leave.”

  
He nodded. A cough came upon him, familiar as a heartbeat. Expertly, he used his handkerchief to catch the blood. But as he moved to pocket it, the guard snatched it away.

  
“I need that.”

  
“Your hands will be bound. You won’t be able to use it.”

  
“What if I cough again before I get there?”

  
He shrugged. “Use your sleeve.”

  
_Use my sleeve?!_

  
They began the slow progress out of the greenhouse, Snow swallowing and crushing the urge to cough. The cold outside seemed to leech the life out of him. If he shivered, onlookers might think him afraid. That was the least of his challenges. The route to the stake would be lined with people, with enemies.

  
He remembered the previous presidents; and their grisly ends. How they had looked at him, how they had dismissed him. They had been so proud, so great. Not all of them had understood the value of death, has he had. Death had been a game for so many of them, a sport. Lives had run through their fingers like water, so carelessly. Yet when it had been their turn to die, they begged and wept, with less bravery than tributes in the arena. They were living gods, until you had them on their broken knees. Then they were common animals. Decency, dignity… such things were alien to the human condition. Unnatural. Feigned. It had been a singular joy, to teach that to them. To pull them down from on high like the force of gravity. To tear up all that they had planted. To destroy in moments what had been created over years.

  
But, as he had himself discovered, it is far easier to cause chaos than establish order. His fall from grace had had no more dignity than theirs. In his heart of hearts, he had always known that to be true. But it had been so glorious to lie.

  
They were coming out onto the street now, the rabble had their first chance to crane their heads and see him brought low. A bowed head meant meekness. His neck ached, but he kept it up. There were cameras lining the route. Those who could not attend would be pressing their noses to their screens, eagerly waiting. They would see him too. Whenever he heard a tentative hiss from the hushed crowd, he turned his head slowly and fixed them with his coldest stare, to signal just what he thought of such as them.

  
For almost forty years he had been greater than himself, he had been the Capitol. He had ruled the entirety of the living world, unless you counted that dank hovel District 13 which he most certainly did not. He had voided conspiracies and routed plots. Enemies came and went, each worse off than the last. Battles were won before they could even be fought, because of him. He had mutilated himself with poison and there had been moments when he was certain that he was about to die, but he had risen stronger than ever before. He had united the warring factions within the Capitol as well as within his own family. He had sheltered and tended the fragility of the system, honed it to perfection. He had endured every slight, but he had endured. He had been powerful before he even knew the meaning of the word. He had crossed from one battlefield to another with no loss of strength.

  
A mob of overgrown children did not frighten him.

  
There is such little joy in the tedium of their lives, he reminded himself. They tell themselves their dearest wish is to see their children live, their homes safe, their rights assured. They lie. Seeing me broken would be their sweetest wish, after all the pain I have caused them. They lap up each drop of my misery and squeeze me for more. The greater my pain, the more is their delight.

  
He would give them nothing. Just to spite them. He was so familiar with death and suffering, he could not be afraid of it. No matter what would happen next, he would hold back that joy from them until it drove them all mad _. After all, I can only die once._

 

For the first paces, all was silent, except for the glaring hisses.

  
“Monster!” Someone hidden from view yelled. The crowd took up the call, along with others. All the things they had thought and whispered for so many years, all the things their parents and their parents before them had themselves thought and whispered. For the first time in seventy-five years, what had been invulnerable was now within reach. Someone grabbed his arm but was pushed away by those escorting him. Snow pretended it was no more than a housefly.

  
“Son of a BITCH!” A rock accompanied the shout, striking the side of his head. Whoever threw it had good aim, he must admit. Momentarily he was dazed, head pulsing; he stopped and grabbed the nearest shoulder to steady himself. Horrified, he realised his coughing had resumed. He tried to squash it, to prevent the blood leaking out, but that only made it worse. All of the strength he had retained so far had dissipated the moment he made the first undignified snort. 75 years of the Capitol’s unrivalled hegemony was dying with one slow walk.

 

Stopping had been a bad idea, it only made the crowd press tighter, closer. The closer they were, the more they could see it.  
Without a podium to hide his small stature, without gloves to cover the age spots on his thin hands, without anything at all to hide the marks of illness, stress and strain on his face, without a screen to hide the smell of decay- he was ordinary. He was back to the beginning again. He was what he had always been. Small, thin and sickly.

 

 _My family is watching this_ , he thought. _Would it be better or worse for them if I was afraid?_ The president was not sure.

 

They walked him past the area fenced off and reserved for rebel commanders. There were gaps left respectfully between their ranks to represent those he had killed. The mob cleared, he slowed down his already slow pace to almost stillness to eye them, every one of them. His gaze, even now, made some of them look down or away quickly, out of fear. The others returned his glare, with eyes of every shape and colour. He held it, did not blink even as his eyes itched. Finally, when the sight became unbearable, he looked forward, as if they were beneath his notice. He passed the new flag as well, a hideous blue monstrosity with pathetic little stars and what looked like a massive egg yolk in the middle. He rolled his eyes and hoped the cameras caught the gesture.

 

The walk had felt unending, but the post was there. He kept his gaze fixed on that. He could feel President Coin’s eyes on him, willing him to look up at her, but refused. He was pliant as a reed, turning carefully to lean his back against the wood. He could feel the chips and dents in it from prior use. Waste not.

  
A length of chain was looped around his middle and fixed with a bolt, which then had to be undone and corrected when they realised the chain was so loose it was in danger of falling to his feet. Wouldn’t want me to run off. The thought was amusing, but laughter would make coughing worse.

 

“I said we should have had a rehearsal,” he told the fumbling executioner who was cursing under his breath. “Did anyone listen to me? No.” But he was ignored.

 

He looked at his would-be assassin. _We have switched places_ , he thought. Not so very long ago he was the icon and nobody outside of District Twelve had ever even heard the name Katniss Everdeen. But now nobody inside District Twelve could hear her name, now she was the myth and he was swept underfoot. He wondered if she was thinking that herself.

 

She reached for the arrow, but he stayed looking at her face instead. Here was the hitch in the fabric, the knot, the thorn. _I warned you. One arrow cannot kill the both of us._

_Oh, my dear Miss Everdeen. My foolish, fragile, flawed, human, dearest Miss Everdeen._   
_I thought we had agreed not to lie each other?_

 

The most important conversation he had ever had; and not a single word was spoken.

  
The arrow sailed over his head and suddenly he had a thought, as Coin came crashing to the ground. If the games were Coin’s idea, who was to say that her successor would continue them? If they had any brains at all, they would take a lesson from this. The games might well be cancelled.

  
 _There’s hope_ , he thought. _My grandchildren. My grandchildren now have a chance of life. I might be the only one of us who has to die. Hope, that I’ve spent so long trying to crush, has made a slave of me as well. Hope is the only thing stronger than fear._  
 _Of course it is._ He began to laugh.

_I’m a fool. There’s no hope for anyone. Hope is a lie, power is a lie, death and fear are the truth. The rest is all lies. The world we live in is a blade of truth cushioned in false reality we don’t even know we’re creating. It all goes the same way. Just as I am standing thirty-nine years late for death in the same spot I almost died before. My life went on because the circle of misery keeps going on. Thirty-nine years going around to the beginning of the circle._

That made him laugh harder. _Laughing is all we can do about it. So we might as well laugh._ Laugh he did. The blood came up, thicker, darker, foaming like the sea, drowning him from the inside.

Still he kept laughing. The crowd pressed him like a vice, he was struggling to breathe, the chain rattling as he retched, the force of the cough pushing him down, the chain digging into him but he kept laughing. _All we can do is laugh and laugh and laugh._

  
Blood was spattering on the ground and smeared by the crowd who kept pressing closer. It felt like his bones were bending from the weight of all of them. He would scream, but screaming needed air and the blood was starting to plug in his throat.

  
Bits of skin were peeling off to ooze out more blood. The more blood, the more he coughed. The more he coughed, the more peeled.

He wanted nothing more than to claw it out with his fingers but he was still tethered tighter than ever. Chaos and chaos and chaos.

  
The thought briefly came to him that he was going deaf. The coughing, after all this time, had finally stopped. The crowds were getting quieter, they pressed tighter but it sounded as if they were moving away. Enough. His awareness was shrinking, from the post at his back and the chain, to his feet and hands, at last to the rose falling from him.

The rose.

There was no point trying to reach for it.

It had gone.


End file.
